


Hold Me Closer Than Your Fantasy

by Vav



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, cabin fever-ish, probably not canon compliant bc i have 3 brain cells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 04:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vav/pseuds/Vav
Summary: Barry and Hank lay low together after Batir comes to town. The cabin fever starts to set in, and Barry finds himself endlessly annoyed by Hank's pop music and Hank's minimal clothing and Hank's warm "good morning!"s and Hank's toned thighs and H- it's just annoying, okay? Hank's annoying.





	Hold Me Closer Than Your Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTAINS MILD SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2** listen this started canon compliant and it just kinda turned into...[gestures vaguely]. this takes place after the monastery shootout so let's just act like barry gets a few days before things inevitably go absolutely bananas. this is a much better fic if you don't think about the canonical implications xoxoxoxoxoxo

It’s the damn shorts. That’s what it is, right? Hank parades around in the tiniest shorts possible like it’s no big fucking deal, and it’s driving Barry up the wall. He understands that the concept of decency is probably lost on someone like Hank, but Jesus _Christ_. This is getting out of hand.

They’ve been holed up together for a few days so far. Mediocre hotel out in Inglewood. They’re both hiding in plain sight. Batir’s orders. Well, Batir ordered Hank to go cool off and lay low for a week while he deals with the Bolivians and makes them some money. And Hank hired Barry off the books to protect him in case Batir tries to fuck him over. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Barry wonders how the fuck he got tied up in all of this. Batir seems more competent than Goran ever was, and Barry remembers Goran only threatening to kill Hank or ship him back to Chechnya three, maybe seven times. Not so bad. But Hank worries every day about Batir finding out who _really_ killed everybody at the monastery. Barry shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. But maybe if Hank didn’t – 

Whatever. Dwelling is pointless. Barry knows this. But he does it anyway. In the elevator, in bed, in the shower, as he listens to Hank’s bubblegum pop music blaring through his headphones at what seems like all hours of the day.

They’re staying in a modest suite at the hotel – Hank refused to settle for anything less – and Hank has the entire, albeit small, living room section set up as his own personal gym.

They’ve been trying to lay low as much as possible. It’s maddening. Barry’s restless joints usually take him to the hotel pool each morning. Hank…Hank goes to Whole Foods every day in a wig and sunglasses to pick up a meal for dinner and more yogurt-covered whatever-the-fucks that he eats all of before Barry can even get his hand in the bag. And Hank works out in the living room. Barry doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s there for if they spend a third of their time apart anyway. That’s not exactly how bodyguards work. 

“Oh, Barry, I did not see you there,” Hank nearly shouts as he removes an earbud then sets one of his hand weights down. Barry just got back from a quick trip to the coffee joint across the street from the hotel. He needed some air, some caffeine, and a ten minutes away from Hank. “How was the coffee run?” 

There’s sweat glistening on what Barry can see of Hank’s chest above the low scoop neck of his tank top. The hotel has a perfectly good gym he could work out in instead of bothering Barry here. Hank sets down his other twenty-five pound dumbbell and shakes his arms out.

“Fine. How much longer are we gonna be here, you think?” Barry asks bluntly, and Hank makes a face of unhurried contemplation. The Chechen stretches his arms above his head, and Barry looks toward the bedroom instead of the muscle and veins basically popping out of Hank’s toned arms. 

“Well, could be couple of days,” Hanks shrugs and uses the hem of his tank top to wipe the sweat from his brow. He nudges a medicine ball out of the way with his foot and takes a few steps closer to Barry, who’s still awkwardly in the foyer of the hotel room. “Maybe week? That sound okay?”

“Hank, Batir said a week. It’s been five days. Obviously this guy’s not gonna fuckin’ kill you in your sleep,” Barry retorts in exasperation. Hank cocks a hip and Barry’s eyes dart involuntarily to his thighs, out on full display beneath the bottom hem of his red shorts. “I don’t know how much longer I can deal with you and your shit taking up the entire bathroom counter. And would it kill you to put some fuckin’ clothes on, man?”

“Barry,” Hank starts in that fucking _tone_, that smug, overly-cheery tone that seems to be reserved just for Barry Berkman nowadays. Hank upturns his hands in a half shrug. “I am wearing clothes.” Barry turns exactly 90 degree to the right and heads into the bedroom, silently cursing the fact that there’s no physical barrier between the common area and the bedroom. “And I found one hair in the shower this morning, mister. You are not off of a hook, Barry.”

Hank microwaves them some enchiladas from Whole Foods for dinner, and Barry settles in front of the TV to watch American Ninja Warrior. Usually Hank goes in the other room or on the balcony this time of night, making phone calls to god knows who on his burner or typing up long-winded emails on his laptop. But tonight he plops himself down on the other end of the couch with a La Croix in one hand as he balances his enchilada meal on his lap.

“Oh, I could _so_ do that. No problems,” Hank comments after one of the contestants fails an obstacle and falls into the water below. He takes a bite of his food, and Barry offers him nothing more than an intense side eye before tuning back into the program, and hopefully tuning out Hank. Another minute or two goes by as they announce the next contestant. “Oh my god. Barry. Do you see this clown? He fell on first challenge. What the fuck?”

“Hank, you couldn’t even make it on this show, okay?” Barry snaps, though there’s no real bite to it. They’ve fallen into this cadence of subtly annoying each other, but they can’t do anything about it. The solution would be for one of them to kill the other, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, Barry’s past that. Well, desperately trying to be. And Hank kind of likes having Barry around, even if it’s not by choice. “I’m an ex-Marine and I couldn’t even do this. Besides, you’re not strong enough in your legs.” 

“Oh, so you have been looking at my legs?” Hank teases around a mouthful of enchilada. Barry gives him a cursory glance and rolls his eyes. His pink-tinted cheeks speak volumes, though, and Hank decides he _really _likes having Barry around. The show goes to commercial, and Barry curses under his breath as the blaring advertisements begin to play. He turns down the volume a few notches out of habit, not because he wants to talk to Hank. “I can squat over 200 pounds, Barry. It’s no joke.” The expression on Hank’s face is relaxed, though, and Barry just lets this happen to him. He’s not going to fight Hank over American Ninja Warrior. 

Barry focuses on the commercial for Popeye’s. Dry chicken sandwiches have never been more interesting. Hank is probably strong enough, Barry admits to himself. He’s basically all muscle, with incredibly toned thighs, calves, glutes, and oh god, his arms. Not that Barry’s been looking at any part of Hank’s body besides his stupid bald head, of course. Well, maybe he’s looked, but only because Hank just puts everything out there so freely for him to see. And it’s not _for _him, Barry knows it’s not, but sometimes he smirks to himself in the bathroom, because _what if it is_.

“How much can you squat, Barry?” Hank asks as he finishes up his meal and the show returns from commercial break. Hank sets his plastic tray filled with enchilada residue on the table next to him and splays one arm out along the back of the couch, full attention on Barry. Barry exhales long and steady through his nose, closes his eyes, and decides on an answer for Hank.

“I stay in shape,” is what he settles on, not wanting Hank to make fun of him for being slightly out of practice in the weight room, but also refusing to let Hank think he’s some washed up hack job. As if Barry hasn’t proved himself time and time again to the likes of Hank, the other Chechen fucks, and every other goddamn person that’s crossed his path in this side of his life. As if Hank didn’t literally hire him for protection.

“I can see that,” Hank smirks, and Barry can _feel_ the other man giving him a long, searing once-over. “Maybe we work out sometime. Together.” Barry tears his eyes away from the contestant flying through the obstacles on-screen. He doesn’t know why, but he’s compelled to look at Hank. So, he gives him the time of day. “We can make sure your form is still good.”

* * *

Barry stares up at the ceiling. It’s getting harder and harder to fall asleep, and he’s already been having sleep issues ever since his discharge. He’s wasting time here with Hank, but he’s just one man and there’s only so much he can do while still ensuring his own life by proxy of ensuring Hank’s life. It’d be nice if Hank could wrangle up some more Chechen manpower so Barry wouldn’t have to be the one “protecting” him, but here they are. So Barry stares up at the ceiling. 

Hank stretches and sighs exaggeratedly before climbing into the other bed, clad only in a pair of navy blue silk pajama pants, his sleep mask resting up on his forehead for the time being. It’s the same routine. Hank goes to sleep by eleven o’clock and wakes up at six-thirty to do yoga. Barry usually lies awake until around two, then wakes up whenever Hank decides to start making a lot of noise in the other room. Sometimes it’s ten, sometimes it’s seven. Barry never used to be a light sleeper.

“Well, another day, another dollar,” Hank shrugs and pulls the covers up to his chest, just above his pecs. Barry’s pretty sure Hank doesn’t exactly know the meaning of that phrase, but he lets it go for now. “I will go and get some continental breakfast for us in the morning, Barry.” Barry just nods minutely and grabs another pillow off of the bed to hold against his chest. “Goodnight, Barry, have sweet dreams!” Barry hums in response, then Hank turns out the bedside lamp.

Barry hugs the pillow tight and listens to the sound of Hank’s breathing. The cabin fever is starting to set in. He gets out every day, but it’s not to where he wants to go. Barry wants to go for a long drive, polish his guns, and go to the beach to watch the waves crashing. Barry doesn’t want to be confined to a hotel room with the only exception being palling around with the girls from his acting class or swimming in the tiny hotel pool. It’s a life, he supposes, but it’s not the one he wants. None of this is what he wants.

Barry checks his phone and suddenly it’s midnight. He has a few texts from his acting class group chat, and one from a number not in his contacts. He swipes away the notifications and dreads the fact that he’ll probably have to deal with them tomorrow. For now, Barry’s mind wanders. He has to blink himself out of a few terrible memories, and finally turns onto his side to try to get some sleep. Try.

It’s just past one when he hears a noise from the other bed. Hank doesn’t snore and has only talked in his sleep once or twice – and in Chechen – so Barry’s tired ears perk up just the slightest bit. Barry can faintly see that Hank is sprawled out across the queen mattress, sleep mask already off of his head like always. Another noise escapes him, just a little hum, or rather a grunt. If this turns into a little snore fest, Barry’s stealing Hank’s headphones and sleeping on the fucking couch.

“Barry,” Hank murmurs, and Barry’s expression in the dark room shifts from mild annoyance to ghost-white shock. Hank garbles something that must be in Chechen and heaves a great big sigh in his sleep. Barry throws the pillow off of himself and turns the lamp back on.

“Hank?” Barry asks so quietly he’s not even sure any sound comes out. Hank doesn’t stir, the bastard. Barry watches Hank’s torso move up and down with each breath, and he finds his breathing matching Hank’s in due time.

“Mm, Barry,” Hank whispers again, voice breathy and barely-there, this time with a little lilting noise at the end, almost like he’s about to giggle. Barry sits up and scowls at Hank’s sleeping form in equal parts discomfort and intrigue. “S’good, Barry…” Hank devolves into another short string of Chechen and Barry notices a minute movement of the other man’s hips, half-hidden beneath the rumpled sheets. Barry’s cheeks heat up and he switches the lamp between their beds back off.

“Hank!” Barry whisper-yells into the darkness, but Hank doesn’t respond. The murmuring stops but Barry can hear the slight rumpling of Hank’s bed covers. It’s almost too quiet to notice beneath Barry’s own labored breathing. Barry lays back down, covers his eyes with one hand, and places the other hand low on his t-shirt-clad belly.

He’s hard. He’s fucking half-mast and now he actually wants to kill Hank. Whatever. He’s dealt with random boners hundreds of times in his life. He can ignore this. He’ll just think about something to turn him off. Not that he’s turned on or anything, this is just random. He just needs to thinking about something unappealing to cool his body down. He’ll think about Hank.

Hank and his dumb fucking patterned shirts that are too tight but somehow never busting at the seams. Hank and his stupid accent that makes Barry’s name come out like a different word all its own when it leaves Hank’s lips. Hank and his nonsense tattoos that litter his arms – Barry wonders if he has more that he can’t see. No he doesn’t. Well, maybe he does. Barry figures if there were any in a hidden spot, he’d have seen them already. Those damn shorts and skimpy tank tops. Hank’s ass in those shorts. Hank’s tired yet perfectly muscled body as he climbs into bed at night.

Barry’s got his hand around his cock before he can even think about the way Hank was just uttering his name in the dead of night. It’s embarrassing and juvenile and it makes his blood run white hot. He lets out a shaky breath and rolls over onto his side, facing _away_ from Hank. There’s shame in his veins, in his fucking bones but he can’t stop himself. He hasn’t touched himself the entire time he’s been pent up with the damn Chechen, and while that’s not the end of the world at his age, he still shudders into his pillow at the contact from his own hand.

Hank’s shoulders. His calves. His hairless eyebrows raising as he gives Barry one of his typical cocky grins. Hank’s hands, strong and tatted, and fuck if Barry isn’t into it, _so_ into it. Hank whispering Barry’s name. Moaning his name. _Whining _his name. _What if –_

Barry tiptoes his way to the bathroom with his pants tented so comically he’d probably throw himself out the window if Hank woke up and even caught a glimpse of him through bleary eyes. He finishes himself off and sits on the toilet for five minutes afterward, contemplating the risks of just leaving in the middle of the night. Hank would be pissed. Hank would be scared. Hank might die. It might just be worth it to avoid having to look at the man he just fucking jerked off to like a horny teenager. Whatever. It’s out of his system.

“You okay man?” Hank’s groggy voice asks the second Barry steps out of the bathroom, and he nearly jumps out of his pants. “You do not usually get up in middle of night. Enchiladas make your tummy sick?”

“Fuck, Hank, Jesus, man,” Barry stammers, but manages to flop back into bed, thankful that the light is off and they can both be shrouded in darkness. “I’m fine, just had to take a piss. Go back to sleep.” He doesn’t mention what Hank said in his sleep. Hank complains briefly about not being able to find his sleep mask before he’s quiet and his breathing evens out once more.

Barry falls asleep within minutes.

* * *

It’s the middle of the goddamn afternoon when Hank comes back from the store, still wearing that god-awful blond wig and cheap sunglasses. The summer heat is finally starting to sink in, and Hank shirks the wig immediately once the door is shut behind him. He sets his sunglasses and the bag of groceries down on a small table near the entrance, sighs with pursed lips, and undoes the last button on his polo.

“Nothing was really calling to me at The Whole Foods. I got some more yogurt pretzels though! I figure we can just do room service tonight,” Hank shrugs, and Barry nods nonchalantly as he plays a game on his phone on the couch. “Wanna catch a workout?” In his periphery Barry can see Hank pulling off his shirt completely. He focuses harder on his game. “Barry?”

“No, I’m good, man. I’ll go in the other room,” Barry shrugs and pockets his phone. He spares a glance toward Hank as he gets up from his seat.

“You could stay and watch,” Hank offers, and Barry stops mid-stride to quirk a brow at the Chechen.

“The fuck would I wanna do that for?” Barry asks bluntly. Hank just stands his ground a few feet away, hands on his hips and chest bare and there for all to see. Barry hates himself for it, but his eyes dart down to Hank’s belt and back up to his smug little face.

“I told you, I want to make sure you have proper form,” Hank states simply, and Barry goes to walk away once more, but he catches Hank scanning him from head to toe. “I have extra sho-orts.” His sing-song tone gets under Barry’s skin. “They might be little tight, but I think they’d look great on you.” He’s flirting. Hank’s half naked with a dumb, challenging grin on his face, and he’s fucking flirting. It irritates Barry to no end. He turns to face Hank head on, nostrils flared, still two or three arms’ lengths away from the Chechen.

“You have a good dream last night, shithead?” Barry cocks his head and asks, jaw clenched and arms crossed over his chest. He’s met with a sight that he has not often seen before – Hank with a faint blush on his cheeks, one hand coming off of his hip to nervously scratch at his neck. His hand drops back down, and he runs one finger along the inside of the waistband of his grey chinos.

“I did,” Hank concurs, nodding proudly as the redness fades away. He takes a step toward Barry and puffs his chest out a little. He leans forward and raises a brow. “You have fun time in the bathroom?” Barry bites the inside of his cheek and breathes out harshly through his nose.

“I told you, I was just taking a piss,” Barry reasons, eyes rolling in annoyance. This is what he’s good at. Denying, deflecting. Whether it’s the authorities inquiring about a hit he himself carried out or Hank asking if he did, in fact, fully masturbate to the thought of him, Barry has always been able to get out of every situation. But Hank’s still looking at him like he’s won a competition and Barry is the prize.

“Oh, Barry,” Hank sighs, and Barry shivers as he’s reminded of what Hank murmured into the nothingness of the night before. Hank takes another baby step closer, and Barry can really smell him now. He’s equal parts sweat and the cologne he told Barry he had bought himself as an early birthday present, all too much and not enough at the same time. Whatever. Barry likes the smell of fruity shampoo and sweet body spray. Not whatever this is. “You bullshit for a living. And you are so good at it, too.” Hank’s voice drops an octave and becomes a near-whisper. “But you forget that I bullshit, too. Which means I smell bullshit from mile away.”

Hank’s in his space now, close enough for Barry to push away if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want to. And that places an incredibly large lump in his throat. What does he do now? Leave? Give in so Hank can make fun of him to his idiot Chechen friends afterward? Knock Hank out and leave? Give in so he can finally be happy for even fifteen fucking minutes of his miserable excuse of a life? Pull the fire alarm and leave? Barry swallows thickly and averts Hank’s gaze.

“In my dream, you fucked me so good it woke me up in real life,” Hank admits, voice low and just for the two of them. “Isn’t that just the craziest thing you ever heard of?” Barry rolls his shoulders and shrugs.

It is. It is the craziest thing he’s ever heard of. No one’s ever thought of Barry like that. He had a girlfriend or two in high school and a fling while he was in basic training, but after that, things have been sparse. Dating has been, for the most part, off the table. Sex takes the form of one night stands that kick him out in the morning and leave him feeling hollow and isolated all over again. He wants something tangible. Fuck, Hank’s not even really tangible, but he could be _fun_.

“I would have told you last night, but I was a _liiiittle_ scared you were straight,” Hank remarks with a squint, but then it’s back to that irritatingly pleasant expression that he wears far too often around Barry. He takes a step closer and places a hand on one of Barry’s folded arms.

“I _am_ straight,” Barry retorts flatly. His entire demeanor obviously fucking betrays him, though. He’s sweating, he’s red, he’s much too tense, and –

“Really? Huh,” Hank ponders sarcastically after snorting at Barry’s statement, and Barry’s about two seconds and a lifetime of anxiety away from smacking Hank upside the head. Hank looks down between them. “Then why can I totally see your cock right now, Barry?” Barry follows Hank’s line of sight and looks down at his own jeans, where his erection is straining against his zipper and creating yet another obvious bulge in his pants. “It’s like, there it is, you know?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Barry snaps and shakes Hank’s hand off of his arm. He finally breaks away to go into the other room, but of course there’s no hiding from the Chechen unless he flees the hotel in a full sprint. Even then, Hank could probably catch up to him.

“Barry,” Hank says sternly, but with a light air of fondness that makes Barry curious. “Maybe you misunderstand. I would very much appreciate if you would –”

Mere steps away from the bathroom, Hank freezes in place as Barry whips around to face him, nostrils flared but expression wholly unreadable. They stare at each other for a few seconds, then Hank brings his hand up to gently support Barry’s chin with a curled index finger.

Hank assesses the risks of the situation for all of three seconds before he leans in to place a tender kiss to Barry’s cheek, just an inch or two away from his lips, now pressed into a tight line. He works his way over to Barry’s jaw, leaving fleeting kisses in his wake, and Barry’s fists ball at his sides. He’s not resisting. Barry knows he’s weak for this, knows he’s a fool, but he can’t resist this, can’t resist the attention, and certainly not this kind of attention from _Hank_.

Barry’s eager when Hank kisses him fully on the mouth, and it takes them both by surprise. Barry’s eyes remain open while they kiss softly, heart nearly beating out of his chest in equal parts arousal and anxiety. The Chechen’s hand moves from Barry’s chin to his chest, trying and failing to grab at the material of Barry’s shirt for leverage.

“Barry,” Hank tries, but his mouth his covered with Barry’s before he can continue. “Barry.” Hank nips on Barry’s lower lip, and Barry freezes, pupils going wide as Hank pulls back just the slightest bit. “This is not very straight of you, Barry.” The hitman goes to respond, but Hank grabs one of Barry’s hands off of his face and guides it down to his own crotch. Hank cants his hips forward into Barry’s hand and lets the other man get a feel for what he’s working with.

“Oh,” Barry breathes out, and although his mind screams at him to retract his hand, he _grabs _at the hardness beneath the layers of Hank’s pants and underwear, pulling a pleased hum from Hank. He’s in too deep. He wants this too bad to back out, wants Hank too bad to stop now. He drops both of his hands to his sides and his hands begin to tremble slightly. It’s the adrenaline of it all mixed with abject anxiety and topped off with a complete internal crisis of sexuality after it _clicks _with Barry that kissing a man felt _good_. Touching Hank like that felt right.

“Hey,” Hank whispers, holding him in place and leaning his forehead against Barry’s sweaty one. “I haven’t been straight since, like, 1995. Okay? I can show you ropes.” Hank then perks up. “I learned a _lot_ of things out behind the discotheque.” Barry grimaces internally at the thought. Hank isn’t a good person by any stretch of the imagination, but Barry thinks he at least deserves good sex. Good sex indoors with the lights dimmed instead of whatever the hell Hank used to get up to in dark alleyways with god knows who. No, no time for jealousy or feelings. Hank’s intangible.

They kiss softer this time, lips fitting against lips until Hank slips his tongue languidly inside Barry’s mouth. Barry thinks he might pass out. It’s been years since someone’s kissed him like this. He pulls Hank closer without even realizing it, hands placed on his bare lower back. Hank’s skin is hot and soft underneath his fingertips and it makes Barry feel slightly more at home.

“You are good kisser. See? You already nailed step one. Good job, man,” Hank tells him, and for once, Barry doesn’t feel like he’s being superficial in his encouragement. He doesn’t know how Hank does it – doesn’t quite understand how someone whose past, present, and future are all littered with bloodshed can have a demeanor like this – but he accepts it in the moment. It makes warmth bloom in his chest, and makes his jeans even more uncomfortable.

“What’s – uh, what’s step two?” Barry inquires. His pulse is thrumming in his ears, and he’s past the point of caring whether or not this is a good idea. Whether or not this is going to leave him empty afterward, whether or not this is going to ruin his and Hank’s professional and personal relationship, even if their personal relationship just involves being able to coexist without directly killing each other. Hank smooths back some of Barry’s hair that’s fallen in his face.

“Step two is we go to my bed, make out a little, and you let me handle the rest,” Hank instructs slowly as he noses at Barry’s stubbled cheek and jaw. His breath ghosts over Barry’s face and he lets his lips drag faintly on his flushed skin. Barry never even thought Hank could be this sensual or good to another human being. Especially a human being like Barry. Maybe to nice young men he meets at bars or wherever else. But not to Barry. Not when he knows what Barry’s done, what Barry’s capable of.

Barry accepts having Hank underneath him on the bed as a new challenge. He has to at least take some control here, but Hank is so guiding that none of this feels like work. That’s new. Barry has a little game, sure, but whenever he does this with someone new, he overthinks to the nth degree and everything tends to feel robotic. He lets his tongue mingle with Hank’s, and he keeps his hands on either side of the Chechen’s head, palms pressed firmly into the mattress. Usually this is when he’d start to work his way down his partner’s body, but now he just stays put. Do men even like having their chests touched? Would Hank like that? Barry supposes Hank will tell him if he wants that.

“You are so good at this, Barry,” Hank praises, and Barry allows himself to press against Hank a little more, lowering himself so that their lower bodies are fully slotted together, one of Hank’s legs between Barry’s two. “Even better than Cristobal.” Barry freezes. He knew this was all just a joke. Had to be, right? Just some twisted, meaningless thing that Hank wanted to do for a laugh. Of course. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes in an instant. Embarrassment. He hates it. So he does what his body screams at him to do. He pulls back and wraps a hand around Hank’s throat. A warning, for now.

“You little fucking _shit_,” Barry growls with flared nostrils. This is the Barry that Hank’s used to. Barry has an entire vitriol prepared – he always does with Hank – but then he sees Hank’s eyes roll back before his eyelids slam shut. He hears the sharp, shallow intake of breath. He feels Hank’s hips lift off the bed, clothed cock pressing hard against Barry’s thigh. It’s hard for Barry to breathe, let alone form a coherent thought. “God_dammit_. I’m so fucking sick and tired of…So tired of…You – wait, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I was _kidding_, Barry,” Hank smirks, grinds his erection on Barry’s thigh some more with minute, repetitive motions. “I haven’t done anything with Cristobal. Just wanted to see what it would take to get you riled up. And survey says: not a lot.” Annoyed and even more embarrassed now, Barry tries to remove his hand from Hank’s throat, but Hank grabs his wrist tight to keep it there. Barry makes a noise of confusion. Hank bites his lip and grunts as he rolls his hips once more.

“Oh.” Hank nods at him and smirks at Barry’s wide-eyed look of realization. “Oh.” Barry blinks a few times and drinks in Hank’s open, flushed expression. “Do you…like, if – is it…Like…What if you’re fighting and someone tries to choke you…” Hank’s breathing is labored and his eyes are slightly glazed, but then he cracks into a wide grin. Great. Probably another joke on Barry.

“I don’t get off on people trying to kill me, Barry, I’m not a perv,” Hank reasons. Barry finally lets go of Hank’s throat and assumes his previous position, but he slides himself lower on Hank’s body so he can just rest his head on Hank’s chest. This is taking a lot out of him. One of Hank’s hands find his hair, and Barry lets his eyes slip closed as careful fingers card through thick, dark strands. “But when super-hot assassin like yourself gets a little rough with me in the bedroom?” Hank’s bulge is against the nook between Barry’s thigh and groin, and Barry feels Hank’s cock leap in his pants. “I mean, fuck. Now take your shirt off.”

Barry’s a little self-conscious as he removes his t-shirt. He’s accepted his body for what it is, and he thinks he’s attractive enough for a regular person. But in front of Hank? And Hank’s veiny forearms? And his strong thighs and perfectly toned abdomen? Yeah, Barry thinks he’s got a pretty good reason to be a little shy.

Hank’s eyes light up, though, when Barry puts himself in a similar state of undress, pants still on and far too tight. Barry tosses his shirt over to his own bed, and he tries to suck in his slight belly as much as possible. But then Hank’s hand runs up his chest, reveling in the abundance of hair all over Barry’s stomach and chest. Hank makes a low little hum of approval, and Barry can’t take it anymore. His hands move to unbutton his own jeans so he can straddle Hank without getting his dick crushed.

“Oh?” Hank asks in intrigue. “Eager. You like having your chest touched, Barry?” And Barry ignores him for now. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. What he _does_ like is all of Hank’s attention on him, rather than bouncing around between eighteen different things in the span of thirty seconds. Barry gets up off of Hank and off the bed in order to shimmy out of his jeans. Hank props himself up on his elbows and eyes Barry up and down yet again. As Barry struggles to get the garment off of his ankles, Hank takes the liberty to start taking his own pants off.

Barry’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Hank with his pants around his thighs, showing off the tiniest pair of grey and red boxer briefs that don’t do _anything_ to hide his erection. Barry feels like a teenager, just standing there looking at the marvelous sight before him, but Hank is quick to bring him back to their current situation.

“Barry, you’re wearing black undies,” Hank scolds lightly, and maneuvers into a sitting position before motioning for Barry to come back onto the bed. “I cannot see a _thing_.” On the contrary, Barry can see a rather large wet spot on the front of Hank’s briefs, and his first instinct is to taste, or even just to feel. He doesn’t, though. He’s too caught off guard by Hank guiding him to sit at the foot of the bed. This…this part Barry knows. Hank shuffles off the bed and in front of Barry on his hands and knees. The itchy hotel carpet can’t feel good on the man’s skin.

“Hank, uh,” Barry whispers as Hank’s hands find his thighs and part them slightly.

“What?” Hank asks with his brows furrowed as he looks up at the man in question. Hank’s tattooed hands inch closer to Barry’s crotch, and Barry’s eyes flick wildly between Hank’s face and his fingers.

“Just. Uh. Thanks?” Barry’s not even sure of himself anymore. Hank looks at him kind of funny, and Barry feels embarrassment in his core once more, but it’s not a disparaging look. Part of Barry wants to pull Hank on top of him and keep making out because that’s safe, that’s territory they’ve already covered. Part of him, an incredibly small part but a part nonetheless, wants to run. But the largest part of him wants to trust Hank, feel Hank, be with Hank right now, in whichever way Hank will allow.

“Barry, I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet,” Hank grins fondly, but the smile dissipates as he palms Barry’s cock through his underwear with his left hand, right staying steady on Barry’s hairy thigh. “I don’t mean to brag, but I give _really_ good blow-jays.” Barry simply exhales and looks up at the ceiling as if he has somewhere else to be. 

Barry fights the urge to bounce one of his legs up and down, the frenzied butterflies in his stomach driving the rest of his body absolutely wild. It’s hard to ignore Hank’s heavy palm on his dick, but Barry’s far past the point of ignoring the way Hank’s making him feel. Physically, of course. There’s no other way. Hank’s touch is intoxicating, the way he’s gazing up at Barry even more so. And Barry doesn’t quite know why, but the image of Hank between his legs in the soft sunlight – touching Barry as if he’s something special – puts a lump in his throat.

Hank begins to pull off Barry’s underwear, fingers grazing Barry’s ass as he peels the garment off, and Barry crosses his arms over his chest once more when he’s finally fully naked on the bed, Hank rolling his boxers down his legs and pulling them off of his feet. Barry’s cock is perfectly pink and impossibly hard, so hard that Hank feels a little bad for making him wait so long. He should have hopped into bed with him last night and had a little fun in the dark. Hank nudges Barry’s thigh with his nose to get his attention, finding that the hitman’s eyes had wandered down Hank’s torso. The Chechen smirks up at him, and before anything can be said, Hank’s mouth finds purchase on Barry’s shaft, lips and tongue kissing up one side. 

Barry leans back a little and his hands instinctively go to Hank’s head. He immediately retracts his hands and leaves them hanging in the air when he remembers that Hank is, indeed, the baldest of fucks. Hank grins and chuckles against the side of Barry’s cock before pulling back, reaching up, and lacing their fingers together mid-air. Barry holds his breath, steels his jaw, and looks Hank in the eye. This is just sex. The way Hank’s touch completely grounds Barry is just a fluke in the whole process. It’s just sex.

“I don’t have hair, you goofy goose,” Hank reminds him sweetly and squeezes his hands twice. “You can still touch my head though, it does not bite.” He manually places one of Barry’s hands on the back of his smooth head, and guides Barry back into a lounging position, the assassin propped up on one elbow as Hank gets comfortable between his legs.

Hank begins to stroke Barry’s cock with a spit-slick hand, and Barry lets out something surprised and guttural. Hank’s eyes light up and he nods in encouragement, mouth slightly agape in anticipation. It’s different, Barry thinks. Good different. Hank’s hand is big and fits around his cock so nicely, tattooed knuckles contrasting with Barry’s flushed erection. There’s a softness to Hank’s touch that makes Barry want to kiss him again, but he figures he might be a little more interested in something else Hank can do with his mouth.

Barry moans when Hank takes him halfway into his mouth, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock almost too tight, but Barry’s not in any place to complain. Hank pulls up a little bit and suckles on Barry’s head, looking up from under heavy lids. He licks around Barry’s sensitive crown and fucking _smirks_. Barry slams his eyes shut. He can’t deal with this. Twenty minutes ago he was ready to throw Hank off the balcony for flirting with him. Now he’s got Hank’s sinful mouth sucking away on his cock and he wants to moan his name and never stop. It’s just sex.

Hank bobs his head on Barry’s cock and Barry’s toes curl into the dingy hotel room floor. His fingers curl against the back of Hank’s head, trying to hold on but not trying very hard. He’s not even sure what Hank’s doing with his tongue, exactly, but it has his brain completely shrouded in a haze. His mind starts to shut down and he lets himself enjoy this. Actually enjoy this. Hank pulls off of his swollen dick with a shuddering breath huffed out through his swollen lips. He places feather light kisses to the head of Barry’s cock, looking up at him with pupils blown so wide his brown eyes look entirely black. 

“Hank, that was –”

“Barry, do you really think I am done?” Hank asks incredulously, and Barry looks slightly taken aback. Hank’s chest heaves and his voice is thick and ruined, playfulness replaced with a downright sexy display that has Barry’s lower belly on fire. Hank lurches up off of his knees and knocks Barry back on the bed, now straddling Barry instead of their previous arrangement. His hand stays between them, grip firm on Barry’s wet cock. Hank pumps him expertly, wrist twisting on each upstroke as his gaze bores holes into Barry’s own eyes. “Because I’m, like, not even half done.”

Hank takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss Barry deeply. Barry winces at first, never having been a fan of the taste of himself, but then everything dissipates as Hank claims Barry’s mouth with his tongue. Barry loses track of Hank’s hand that isn’t on his dick, but then Hank’s exhaling quite forcefully out his nose and Barry feels something hot, heavy, and fucking _slick_ hit his thigh. Hank has pulled himself out of his own underwear without disrupting the rhythm of his strokes or his kissing one bit.

“It’s not easy, you know,” Hank tells him quietly, breath coming in puffs against Barry’s lips. Barry doesn’t realize it at first, but he’s holding his own breath in anticipation. Hank’s got him hanging onto every single word already. That can’t be good. “I want to kiss you just as much as I want to take your dick down my throat.” Hank gives a little chuckle and a one-shouldered shrug, but Barry groans and lets his head flop back against the bed, eyes closing once more. It’s easier to hide inside his own mind rather than maintain eye contact with Hank, who seems to be watching his every move. Studying him. Barry’s suddenly dizzy. And Hank is suddenly off of him and back on his knees.

Barry looks down at his own thigh as Hank resumes stroking his cock with a strong yet surprisingly soft hand. There’s a small streak of clear fluid near his hip, and Barry wipes it away with his middle finger.

“Oops, sorry about that,” Hank apologizes, and he sounds embarrassed but his expression shows Barry that he is absolutely not at all in the slightest. Instead of moving on like a normal person, Hank grabs Barry’s hand with his unoccupied one and yanks Barry’s finger into his mouth. Barry’s eyes go wide and his mouth snaps shut. Hank sucks on Barry’s finger in time with his pumps on his cock, and Barry’s never experienced anything quite like this. He could lose himself in this.

Hank only gives Barry his hand back so that he can put his mouth to better work once more. He engulfs the tip of Barry’s cock in his mouth, sucking and humming and letting his hands massage Barry’s sensitive inner thighs, spreading Barry’s legs further apart in the process. Barry’s exposed and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Fuck, fuck, shit. Shit. Fuck me. Goddammit.” Hank fucking _laughs_ around his cock and pulls off. He looks up at Barry, and the string of spit connecting his lower lip with the tip of Barry’s cock is absolutely obscene.

“No, no, Barry. _You_ fuck _me_,” Hank clarifies humorously, eyes lighting up at the idea, but Barry can see how this is all affecting him. He looks wrecked, cheeks almost as red as his lips, and eyes so very fucking hungry. Hank sinks his mouth back down and just stays there with his eyes closed, tongue massaging halfway down Barry’s shaft. Barry leans to one side and sees that the wet spot on the front of Hank’s underwear has doubled in size.

“Hank,” Barry murmurs, and Hank takes that to mean that Barry wants him to move again. So Hank bobs up and down with no hands, mouth so velvety and hot around Barry’s aching erection. “Hank, I want to – oh, fuck.” Hank hums as he blows Barry, sounds wet and squelching as he swallows around him, and Barry has to force Hank off of him before this ends far too early. “Hank, pleaseletmetouchyourdick.” Hank’s mouth closes, lips cherry red and spit-slick, then he’s working as quickly as he can to get his underwear all the way off.

“You do not have to tell me two times,” Hank states frankly as he joins Barry back on the bed. Barry scoots up toward the headboard and Hank kneels on the bedsheets next to him, hands on his hips to frame his erection proudly. “You can get the ‘bald guy with foreskin’ jokes out now.” Barry’s hands freeze at his sides as he just _looks_ at Hank’s dick. He’d never even think about making a joke at a time like this. Hank’s cock is thicker than Barry’s and almost as long, but with foreskin retracted to just beneath the head.

Barry’s hand lingers awkwardly between himself and Hank’s protruding cock, but Hank’s caught off guard once again when Barry’s fist confidently encircles his erection. Hank’s expression changes from anticipation to something akin to relief, and he has to fight the urge to thrust into Barry’s hand. Barry guides Hank onto his back, providing a more comfortable position for both himself and the Chechen.

“You sure you have never done this before?” Hank asks, sounding foreign to even himself as he recognizes the lust apparent in his voice. Barry strokes him firmly but cautiously, trying his best to mimic the ministrations that Hank had been performing on him just moments ago.

“I mean, just on myself.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.” Hank wiggles his brows at Barry, alluding to the incident the night before.

“Shut up.”

“You sounded good.”

“I wasn’t making any noise, dickhead.”

“Oh, yes you were, Barry,” Hank smirks, voice coming out a little sing-song now. Barry frowns half-heartedly and rubs his palm over the head of Hank’s cock a few times in a polishing motion, getting his hand nice and slick and drawing a broken moan out of Hank.

“Is that the way you like it? On yourself? I’ll keep that in mind,” Hank teases breathlessly as Barry resumes jerking him off like normal. Barry swallows and ignores Hank. Hank folds his arms behind his head like he’s on goddamn vacation. The fuck would Hank need to keep that in mind for? It’s not like they’ll be doing this ever again. It’s just for today. Hank doesn’t need to be thinking about the way Barry likes to be touched, or the way Barry imagines he’d like to be touched. “You are cute when you blush.”

“Shut up.” If Barry didn’t know any better, he’d say that Hank was being this way on purpose. Egging him on. Trying to get a reaction out of him. It’s just a challenge – Hank would never actually pay him a compliment like that. At least he shouldn’t.

Hank holds his tongue – he’d absolutely say something cocky and optimistically arrogant right now if it weren’t for the fact that he’s got at least half of one of Barry’s walls down. This may be as much as he’ll ever get. Hank sits on his words for a minute, just enjoys the way Barry’s paying attention to him, _finally_ paying attention to him as something more than just a liability.

“Let’s skip to, hm, step seven-ish, yeah?” Hank suggests, looking at Barry with eyes full of lust and adoration. It’s annoying. The lump that’s still in Barry’s throat is annoying. Hank doesn’t need to put on this act, but Barry allows himself to indulge in yet another lie. It’s just for today, and it’s just sex. Hank sits up and nudges Barry’s hand off of his erection, although it felt heavenly to be touched so intimately by such a strong and commanding hand. “You stay right here.”

Barry doesn’t know what in god’s name step seven is, or what steps they must have skipped to get there, or if there are even really steps in the first place. What he does know is that Hank’s ass is absolutely fantastic from this angle as the Chechen gets on his hands and knees to crawl toward the foot of the bed. Hank gets off the bed and goes to the dresser where he’s been keeping his clothes. He admires Hank’s physique from behind, light pouring through the sliding glass door to the balcony to shroud Hank in soft sunshine.

Hank’s rummaging for something but Barry just spaces out. He came here to protect Hank. To make sure Hank doesn’t get killed by yet another Chechen goon. He’s got a gun under his mattress, another one under the bathroom sink, and another under a table in the living room. And he’s got Hank’s ass in his eye view, muscles flexing as Hank rocks on his feet while he searches for whatever in god’s name he’s looking for.

Hank turns around with a sultry grin, ignoring the pensive look on Barry’s face. Barry sits up and looks at Hank expectantly.

“What’s up?” Barry inquires, wondering why it’s taking Hank so long to just come back to bed already. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate Hank’s attention and the time Hank’s spending on him. It’s just that he’d really like to get Hank back in his arms, back on his body, back on his mouth. Wherever. Because he likes sex. And he likes Hank.

“_What’s up_?” Hank repeats back to him, obviously bemused. He shrugs and purses his lips. “Not much, man, just trying to get fucked a little bit, what’s up with you?” Barry sits on a response, not quite sure what to say to this man. Hank tosses two condoms at him, but keeps a small bottle in his hand as he clambers back onto the bed.

“You’ve had condoms here the whole time?” Barry asks in exasperation.

“Barry, I am super safe guy,” Hank reasons. “One is regular, and one is tropical citrus.”

“You’ve had _flavored_ condoms here the whole time?” The exasperation deepens.

“Some guys like it,” Hank shrugs. Barry flicks the obnoxious orange condom back at Hank, opting for the standard. The packet hits Hank in the face, and the Chechen dramatically clutches his cheek before tossing the unneeded condom over his shoulder. “Good choice, Barry. I don’t like the fruity-tooty ones, but some guys –”

“I know, some guys like it, I get it,” Barry snaps. Hank gives him a look for the ages.

“Okay, Mr. Cranky Pants, you still want to do this, or no?” Hank asks curtly, but with a mischievous smile on his face. The fucker. He knows Barry’s not backing out of this, if the way Barry’s cock is starting to go red and angry against his thigh is any indication.

“Yeah,” Barry affirms quietly, arousal weakening his voice more so than anxiety. Hank kneels between Barry’s legs, sets the bottle of lube down, and kisses Barry like it’s been days since they’ve last done so. Barry’s apprehension melts away completely. Hank makes him feel good, makes him feel wanted, and that’s more than Barry can say for most people. When they go back to being damn near enemies tomorrow, at least Barry can hang onto this. One good memory.

“Good,” Hank breathes against his lips between maddeningly languid kisses. “It would be real bummer if you didn’t.” Barry’s heart lands in his throat and Hank circles his arms around him, holding him as they make out tenderly. Barry’s arms reflexively do the same. “I mean, I would understand, of course.” Hank’s monologuing on purpose now, just trying to draw things out and get Barry even more worked up. “But, like, you’ve been in my dreams more than once, Barry. And not just my dreams. Like, my day thoughts, too.” Hank gives him one last kiss before pulling back with a smack. Barry’s eyes widen and he stares at the Chechen posed deliciously between his legs.

“Really?” Barry asks, and Hank nods as he flops over and lays on his back next to Barry.

“I don’t know how I can make this more clear, man,” Hank scoffs, but with a softness to his face that makes Barry feel completely comfortable. “I think this will be, like, _super_ fun time, Barry. I’m already having barrels of fun.” His smirk is devilish. He quirks his brow. “Aren’t you?”

Barry swallows thickly. He nods.

Barry ends up holding one of Hank’s thighs with a shaky hand while his other presses a finger inside of Hank. Hank’s got his knees up and back, far more flexible than Barry expected him to be, though it’s not necessarily surprising. Hank’s ass is the tightest thing he’s ever felt, and Barry works his middle finger in and out slowly, but not too slow, as Hank’s face reads as pure and simple bliss. Barry just stares at him with wide eyes but a furrowed brow, eyes flicking down to his ass periodically.

“Barry,” Hank says with one eye cracked open. “You have _got_ to stop looking at me like that, man.” Barry stops his movements, which causes Hank to squirm impatiently and open both eyes.

“I’m not looking at you a certain way,” Barry murmurs, doing his best to return to a natural expression. Hank squints at him.

“You _so_ are.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re looking at me like I’m Alien. Like, Sigourney Weaver,” Hank states bluntly and reaches down with one hand to tug at himself a few times. It’s impossibly erotic to Barry. Hank looks like a goddamn sculpture, but this all seems so routine and casual to him. “Maybe you try looking at me like you want to fuck me.” A pause. “Do you want to fuck me, Barry?”

“Yes,” Barry answers without hesitation, and it does things to Hank’s insides, as if the Chechen isn’t already completely affected by each and every move Barry makes.

Barry knows what he’s doing. Well, partially. He knows how to have sex. Mostly. Right? Yeah. Probably. He’s done it before. With women. And he’s looked at them just fine. Right? Whatever, this can’t be that different. He begins to pump his finger in and out at a steady rhythm like before. Hank pulls him in by the back of the neck for another kiss, and Barry does his best to concentrate on Hank’s ass and his mouth at the same time.

When he adds a second finger, he doesn’t realize it right away, but he’s panting along with Hank. Their mouths are and lips touching, but neither of them make a move to kiss the other. Barry’s exploring the sensations with Hank, grunting whenever Hank lets out a moan, rolling his hips forward so that his aching cock gains some semblance of friction against Hank’s smooth skin.

This is just sex. Barry’s done this before. You kiss a little, you fuck, and you get on with your lives. But Hank’s got his tattooed fingers curled tight in Barry’s hair and he’s fucking himself down on Barry’s fingers, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from all the kissing and biting.

Barry feels free. He’s entirely caught up in Hank. A man. An incredibly strong and annoyingly attractive man. A handsome man with a funky accent that has Barry’s name sounding like poetry right now. Barry supposes he’s not looking at Hank so strangely anymore, because when they lock eyes, Hank looks gone. He looks pliant, almost vulnerable, pupils wide and eyes scanning every single inch of Barry’s face with heavy lids.

“You are very good with your hands, Barry,” Hank whispers against his lips after another kiss. Barry leans away from Hank, pulls his fingers out, and grabs the lube to slick up a third, because that feels like the right thing to do and Hank isn’t stopping him.

Barry feels his own cock leap when Hank moans in his ear once all three fingers are fully inside of Hank. Barry’s heart is in his throat and he just keeps pumping and curling his fingers. Hank’s vice grip on the back of Barry’s head doesn’t let up. He bites at Barry’s earlobe and whispers a string of what must be expletives in Chechen. It’s not a sexy language, but Barry’s going to lose his mind if Hank doesn’t stop talking in that low, breathy register. Barry twists his wrist and crooks his fingers against Hank’s inner walls.

“_Fuck!_” Hank shouts, fingernails digging _hard_ into Barry’s scalp. His legs straighten and Barry can see his abs tense. “Nope. Nope, stop that, holy shit.” Barry removes his fingers and the sound that follows is so obscene that Barry starts to go red again. He clenches his jaw, pulls back so he’s kneeling between Hank’s legs once more instead of leaning over him, and looks at Hank with defensive fear in his eyes.

“What?”

“Barry, have you ever fingered yourself?” Hank asks him bluntly, hands dropping back down onto the bed. He has _got_ to stop asking Barry these kinds of questions.

“No.”

“Has anyone else ever fingered you?” Hank inquires suggestively, cheeky grin on his face. Barry grinds his teeth and Hank can see the movement in his jaw. “Prostate massage, perhaps?” Barry clears his throat.

“What? No,” Barry responds as he squints and shakes his head. “I’ve never even had, like, a regular massage.”

“Well,” Hank starts, and motions for Barry to come closer to him. Barry hesitantly lowers himself over Hank once more, bracing himself on an elbow as their noses almost touch. “You just found my prostate. Which felt very nice. Too nice. Like, really good appetizer at The Applebee’s.” Barry squints again, but Hank kisses the uncertainty off of his face. “Buffalo wings are very fun and sexy, but you don’t want to cum before steak arrives. You know?”

“Oh,” Barry nods – sure, that makes sense. He hasn’t been to Applebee’s in a few years but he supposes he gets the analogy. “So…”

“So now you do it with your cock instead,” Hank finishes for him, and reaches for the condom. He presses it against Barry’s hand that found its way to Hank’s side, rubbing soothingly and aimlessly. Hank smirks at the man hovering over him. He’s tender in a way that Hank never expected. Rough around every single edge, but still so eager to please. The way he looks at Hank, the way he twitches in response to every single sound and movement Hank makes – Hank has to shake himself out of a very dangerous train of thought.

Hank takes a few seconds to make some executive decisions while Barry sits back on his knees and rolls the condom on. He chews on his lower lip and examines Barry, whose hands are shaking slightly. That’s a sight to see. Barry Berkman, trained assassin with the steadiest hands Hank’s ever seen, now shaking at the prospect of fucking another man. Hank pops the cap on the lube again and gets a sizeable dollop ready on his fingers. Barry looks up at him once he’s finished, and Hank sits up to slather Barry’s cock with lube. Hank pumps Barry’s cock, and one of Barry’s hands comes up to cradle Hank’s face, thumb teasing over a cheekbone. Hank melts a little bit more, strokes faltering slightly.

Barry makes a sound of confusion when Hank guides him onto his back, making sure to prop Barry up on a few pillows so he’s not completely flat on the bed. It’s Hank’s turn to have Barry under him now, and his eyes widen at the broad expanse of muscle and hair beneath him. Barry wears that perplexed look on his face as Hank straddles him properly.

“It’s not that I don’t think you can do this, Barry,” Hank reasons, sounding a bit like he’s negotiating with an unruly teenager. “I just really love riding dick.” Barry almost chokes on his own spit again, and shudders out an exhale when Hank firmly grabs his cock. Hank pokes his tongue out in concentration as he positions himself over Barry’s length. “What? You act like no one has ever talked to you like this before.” Wordless, Barry’s doe-eyed gaze back at him says everything.

Barry slams his eyes shut and thrashes his head to the side as Hank lowers himself, one hand holding the base of Barry’s cock and the other pressing on Barry’s abdomen. He opens his eyes when Hank is halfway down, and sees Hank grinning at him, though his breathing is a bit labored. Hank lifts himself almost all the way off of Barry, his rim stretching around the head of Barry’s cock, then sinks back down with a satisfied sigh. Barry feels like he’s going to fucking implode.

Hank repeats his movements until Barry is almost all the way sheathed inside of him. Both of Hank’s hands, one still slick with lube, find their way onto Barry’s chest, bracing himself on the muscled plateau. Barry stares at him with a slightly dazed look in his eye and Hank wants to fuck away the way that makes him feel.

“You good, Barry?” Hank asks in between panting breaths. “You have not made a sound.” Hank shifts his hips a little bit, erection working its way back up after flagging during the initial burn. Barry’s thicker than he looks, but Hank loves the stretch.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Barry states weakly. His hips twitch and Hank squeezes around him just to be a tease. Barry hates it. He wants to fuck the shit out of Hank, but everything’s so _tight_ and so _warm _and so _much_ that he can’t fucking move. And Hank knows this. Hank knows how hot and good he is, he must, but there’s a glint in his eye as he smiles at Barry that has Barry’s stomach in funny knots. And not the knots that mean he’s about to cum inside of Hank, not yet at least. Other knots. Bad knots, he’s sure of it.

Hank rides him slow at first, taking time to work the entirety of Barry’s length. Barry hates himself for it, but he grabs onto Hank’s hips as his eyes flick wildly from Hank’s face, Hank’s chiseled chest, and his own cock disappearing inside of Hank over and over again. Hank mewls or moans or grunts on every downward thrust, and Barry wishes he’d shut up so he could stop being so intimately invested in the way Hank’s riding him.

“God, Barry,” Hank murmurs as he leans down to kiss Barry, something sloppy and off-center that Barry ashamedly loves. “Feel so full.” Hank is dick drunk already, hands now bracing himself on the pillow underneath Barry’s head and murmuring nonsense all over Barry’s face, against his lips, as his nips at his jaw, noses at his ear. Hank reaches for Barry’s hands on his hips, and relocates them to his ass instead.

“Shit,” Barry hisses under his breath. He wants to _grab_, and he does just that, Hank’s toned cheeks feeling like sculpted heaven underneath his large hands. Hank continues rolling his hips enthusiastically, and Barry feels Hank’s glute muscles flex with each stroke. Hank’s body really is perfect, Barry admits to himself – admitted it long ago, really – yet he covers it up with dumb, outdated clothes every goddamn day. But now he’s got Hank naked and on his dick and Barry doesn’t think he’ll ever experience something so perfect again. “Fuck."

“Man of many words,” Hank teases, but his composure betrays him. His lips are parted, he’s sweating, his chest is heaving, and his cock is hard once more, precum beading at the tip. Barry kisses him to shut him up – _just_ to shut him up – and Hank has to smile against the assassin’s lips. “_Barry_…” Barry shakes his head and pushes his tongue further inside Hank’s mouth. He begins thrusting upward minutely, knees bent and feet flat on the bed for leverage.

Hank can’t stop feeling Barry up, but Barry doesn’t seem to be complaining. He bounces in Barry’s lap as his hands wander up Barry’s chest, up the side of his neck, to the back of his head to play with his hair, back down his broad shoulders – _fuck_. This is way better than alleyway sex. Way better than bar restroom sex. Hell, way better than most of the sex Hank has in his own goddamn bed nowadays. Barry’s a fucking specimen in and of himself, something Hank wants to lay on the beach and admire someday, but –

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Hank blurts out after Barry changes the direction of his upward thrusts. He hits that fucking spot again. And it’s not fair because Barry doesn’t know what he’s doing. He probably doesn’t even understand how fucking _good_ he’s making Hank feel, looking like a deer in headlights once more at Hank’s utterance. Hank finds it endlessly endearing.

“Are you –”

“Don’t stop,” Hank moans and shakes his head as he grinds down on Barry’s length. Barry continues his thrusts at that angle, rocking Hank in his lap with assistance from his firm grip on Hank’s ass. Hank buries his face in the crook of Barry’s neck and just _breathes_. Their bodies are pressed together now, Hank’s drooling cock finding friction against Barry’s lower belly as they move together. Barry grinds the head of his cock against that one spot inside Hank over and over again, and the second Hank gets a hand around himself this is going to be over.

He inhales and takes in Barry, feels salt and pepper stubble rub against his head and face. Smells his sweat and the hotel soap and a bit of whatever detergent Barry last used on his clothes. Maybe this is Hank’s favorite place. Barry grunts and Hank perks up a little bit, lips making a dedicated effort to kiss and lick at his neck, a wordless encouragement, as if the enticing sound of skin on skin wasn’t enough for the both of them. Hank begins to help him out again once he gets out of his stupid fucking lovesick bubble, lifting and lowering his hips in some semblance of a rhythm.

“Hank,” Barry’s the first to break the silence, and it just makes Hank roll his hips with more fervor. Usually his name is said in annoyance or agitation. Now? Now it’s lust, thick and pure and hot in Barry’s voice. The angle shifts again, and Barry’s no longer hitting his prostate, but _damn_ if it doesn’t still feel fucking amazing.

“Barry,” Hank exhales for what must be the hundredth time today. He feels his wet cock drag against the other man’s hairy belly, and he’s so wrapped up in the feeling that he doesn’t think to stop before things go too far. The friction is delicious and Barry’s continuous, low grunting is his new favorite sound. “Barry, I’m getting close. Oh, _fuck_.”

Barry slips out of him in an instant and Hank makes an alarmed noise. It happens to the best of them. Sometimes you just go too fast and things are too slippery and it just – _oh_. Instead of trying to get his cock back inside of Hank, Barry all but manhandles him off of his lap.

“Barry, what the fuck are you doing?” Hank asks bluntly, bubble popped for just a moment. He was really enjoying that. If Barry thinks this is going to end in fucking _missionary_, he's got another thing coming. “Missionary is for straight people, Barry.” Hank scrunches his face as his back hits the bed, but Barry doesn’t try to get on top of him.

“Will you shut up for, like, a minute?” Barry snaps back, but they’re both too far gone to actually be assholes to one another. If anything, Barry being testy just turns Hank on even more. He’s getting comfortable. Confident. Barry half sits up and rolls Hank over onto his side, slotting himself behind Hank in a spooning position. Hank’s breath hitches. Is this Barry’s favorite position? Being impossibly close with someone? Feeling their every move? Holding them? Hank wonders if Barry would ever let himself be held.

Barry’s arm that’s squished against the bed worms its way under Hank and around his neck, and Hank’s eyes bulge as he realize what Barry’s doing. Barry holds Hank across the upper part of his chest, hand gripping near Hank’s opposite shoulder, almost in a choke hold but not quite high enough. His other hand grips his own cock and tries to find Hank’s hole once more. Hank reaches back with the hand that’s not supporting himself against the bed and helps him, guides Barry’s throbbing cock inside him.

“_Oh_, my god, Barry,” Hank babbles as Barry slowly pushes all the way inside. They fit together so seamlessly. Barry caresses Hank’s ass as he begins to fuck him again, then that hand moves to the toned plane of Hank’s abs. Hank’s completely wrapped up in Barry, inches away from being choked and another few inches away from Barry’s hand around his dick. 

Barry sighs and grunts and groans into the back of Hank’s neck, and Hank swears he feels a kiss or two to the back of his head while Barry drives into him from behind. Hank grabs the back of his own knee and lifts his leg up slightly, offering Barry a chance to get in deeper, and he immediately capitalizes on that opportunity.

“Touch me, Barry,” Hank whispers, though it’s more of a plea. Barry makes a noise in the back of his throat and maneuvers his arm into a better position so that he can grab Hank’s cock for the first time in what feels like eons. Hank shudders and lets his eyes slip closed, indulges in the way Barry’s making him feel. “So good, Barry. So fucking good.” Surprisingly good. Barry’s even surprised with himself, but he can’t think on it too much when Hank’s echoing his words from the night before. Now they’re real, now they’re on purpose, now they’re loud and bold and right there for Barry. Barry strokes Hank with an inexperienced and adrenaline-fueled hand.

“Hank, I think I’m getting close,” Barry states. And even though he’s talking about his orgasm so plainly, Hank still thinks it sounds adorable. Charming.

“Fucking…welcome to the club,” Hank scoffs, “I mean, fuck, man!” He can feel the sweat on his lower back, his forehead, behind his knees. This is all going to be over soon, and Hank doesn’t want it to be, but he can’t hold off any longer. Not when he’s being dicked like this, not when Barry’s holding him, writhing with him, _feeling him_. The hand on Hank’s chest shifts and wraps around his throat, no pressure at all, just the ghost of a choke. But the feeling, the premise, the thought, it’s all enough for him. It’s not going to be over soon, it’s going to be over _now_.

Hank is wordless but loud as he cums, grunting and crying out meaningless syllables, and Barry doesn’t even realize Hank’s reached his climax until he feels sticky heat spurting over his knuckles, looks over Hank’s shoulder and sees a few strands of white shoot up toward Hank’s chest. Barry fucks him through it, doesn’t know what else to do, and Hank makes a few punched-out attempts at Barry’s name before letting his legs come together once more and stopping Barry’s hand on his cock, shivering with the end of his orgasm. Barry slows his thrusts and breathes with Hank, messy hand going back to hold onto Hank’s toned ass.

“Holy fu-_uuuck_,” Hank groans and turns his head to try to capture Barry’s lips in a kiss. Barry only makes it to the corner of Hank’s mouth, but it’s perfect enough for the both of them. “Keep fucking me, Barry.” It’s all the motivation Barry needs to chase his own orgasm. “Want you to feel good too.” Barry presses his forehead into Hank’s shoulder and gives him a few more thrusts. Everything is Hank, and maybe Hank is everything for a moment or two. Hank is tight around his cock, Hank is soft and willing under his grip, Hank is encouraging and endearing as he coos and whispers to Barry, coaxing him toward his orgasm.

Barry utters a weak “_oh, Hank_” as he cums, cock halfway sheathed and eyebrows knitted together in ecstasy. Hank can feel Barry’s dick twitching and pulsing inside him, feels the heat of Barry’s release through the condom as Barry comes apart, groaning and trying to bury his sounds in Hank’s skin. Hank reaches back to place a hand on Barry’s thigh, grabs him and grounds him and lets him know he’s here and this is all real. Barry gives one final thrust through an aftershock of his orgasm before pulling out completely and letting go of Hank’s throat, leaving Hank empty but not at all alone.

“Shit,” Barry murmurs, lips leaving Hank’s body for what Hank fears may be the final time. Barry is slow to roll over onto his back. Hank remains on his side, listening to Barry’s semi-even breathing and motions as he takes the condom off. Hank’s got cum on his dick, cum on his abs, and the feeling of Barry’s strong hands imprinted into his skin. The Chechen sighs, allows himself a few slow, sleepy blinks, and rolls onto his back, shoulder to shoulder with Barry.

“Kobe!” Hank smiles lazily as Barry attempts to throw the knotted off condom into the small trashcan across the room. He misses by a few feet, and the smile stays on Hank’s face. Barry stares up at the ceiling for half a minute, then turns his head to look at Hank. Hank’s got his eyes closed, but he looks serene, content. Barry scans his face. He wants to kiss Hank again. Hank’s eyes snap open as if he can read Barry’s thoughts. Maybe he can. Barry wouldn’t put it past him. “What are you looking at now?”

“I dunno,” Barry shrugs and goes back to looking at the ceiling. A few more seconds pass by, then Hank shifts up onto his elbow and places his other hand on Barry’s cheek. He turns Barry’s face back toward him. Barry just grins, something small and secretive that Hank’s never ever seen before. It’s so foreign that it makes Hank a little nervous. He’s seen Barry furious, enraged, annoyed, stoic, _scary_. But never this.

“Barry, you look happy as clam,” Hank says hesitantly, brow furrowed in mild suspicion as he drops his hand from Barry’s cheek. “You feeling okay?” Even when Barry was fucking him, he didn’t look like this. Barry looks happy. Barry _feels_ happy. Or, at least a fraction of what he thinks happy should feel like. He’s been out of practice for quite some time. Instead of answering, Barry circles an arm around Hank and goes to pull him in closer to his chest. “Wait!”

“What?” they stare at each other a moment, and Barry’s expression starts to shrink back into the one he always wears around Hank. “Wait, am I supposed to leave?” Hank’s face morphs into soft confusion at that. “Usually they want me to leave. I can, like, go in the other room or something, I guess.”

“No, no, Barry, no,” Hank assures him in a slight panic. “God, no.” He can’t help but feel a little sad that Barry’s so used to being kicked out. Hank’s done it to plenty of guys himself, but he can’t imagine ever casting someone like Barry away. “I’m just, like, _covered_ in cum. And lube. I need a washcloth.”

Barry’s never gotten out of a bed quicker in his life. He makes sure to let the water warm up before he wets a cloth and brings it back to Hank, who wipes himself off then throws the cloth to the end of the bed after dabbing at some sticky spots on Barry. He’s had better aftercare, but it’s not like they went terribly hard, and Barry’s maneuvering so tentatively around him that Hank can’t help but _melt_ into his arms once the hitman’s back hits the bed once more.

Hank fights the urge to sleep as he rests his head on Barry’s chest, one of Barry’s arms around him, nervous fingertips drawing nonsense patterns into Hank’s back and side. Barry doesn’t think he’s every seen Hank this relaxed – or at least never heard him this quiet in broad daylight. It’s kind of nice, but he still has butterflies in his stomach, breaths coming out slightly shaky even though they’ve been cuddling for ten minutes already.

“I wish we were at home. I’d cook you nice dinner,” Hank sighs absent-mindedly. Barry doesn’t know where home is. For either of them, really. But it’s a nice thought. Someplace with a cozy kitchen and music playing and a musky candle burning. Someplace with comfortable chairs and a patio and carpeted stairs that wouldn’t hurt Barry’s knees as he trips and falls on them while trying to get Hank upstairs after a night out. He blinks himself out of the daydream and hums.

“Do you always cook after sex?” Barry asks after a long pause. He scratches his nails lightly down Hank’s back, the conversation soothing him and his post-coital nerves a little bit. He’s nervous about the weirdness, about the feelings – no, there are no feelings – about the _where do we go from here?_ But he and Hank talk all the time. It’s what Hank’s good at. So Barry’s calm for a moment.

“Mm,” Hank purrs and rubs his leg against Barry’s, and Barry finds himself comforted by the feeling of Hank’s soft dick against his hip. It’s comfortable, personal, still intimate even though they’re not in the thick of it. “I’ll cook breakfast the morning after I fuck someone, if I like them. I usually do not fuck at four in the p.m., though.”

“After _you_ fuck someone?” Barry follows up. His brow furrows slightly but his hand doesn’t stop moving over Hank’s skin. Hank makes an amused noise once more.

“Barry, do you think taking dick is all I’m good for?” Hank teases, pausing slightly to let Barry panic and fumble for something right to say. “It’s called being versatile, Barry. It’s okay. I’ll get you up to speed. Maybe after dinner.” Hank sighs contently and rubs a hand up and down Barry’s chest, palm grazing a nipple gently.

“You want to have dinner with me still?”

“_Barry_,” Hank nearly whines. He grabs for Barry’s hand that isn’t currently stroking his body so tenderly. He brings Barry’s it onto his hairy belly, then Hank places his own hand on top of it. “Is it really so fucking crazy to believe that I like you? Like, for more than just sex?” Barry exhales through his nose, but lets Hank squeeze his hand and fiddle with his fingers. He doesn’t respond, but Hank doesn’t need him to. He knows it’s complicated.

It’s complicated. Hank orders room service on the hotel phone, cord stretched to its limit across the bed because Barry doesn’t want to let go of him. It’s complicated. Hank lets Barry wear the deep maroon silk robe he brought for himself, the Chechen opting for the scratchy, terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel as they try to make themselves presentable for whoever’s bringing their food up. Hank always looks nice, Barry thinks as the slightly shorter man helps him fix his disheveled hair in the bathroom mirror. It’s complicated. Barry opens the door for room service and Hank stands off to the side, hand unashamedly palming Barry’s ass as Barry hands the employee a tip in exchange for their meals. Barry kind of likes it, but it’s complicated.

What’s not complicated is the way Hank looks at him with bemused concentration as Barry tells yet another mundane, mildly funny story from acting class. Hank steals the last fry from Barry’s plate and Barry gives him a vaguely threatening glance before they devolve into soft giggles and softer smiles. Hank’s never really had this before. He doesn’t really get to have friends, or whatever this is. Most of the people in his life – or the people who _were_ in his life a few days ago – would kill him in a heartbeat if it meant quicker, easier money. Barry’s had that opportunity before, Hank realizes. He didn’t take it. It’s not so complicated.

They hold hands as they watch American Ninja Warrior on the couch after dinner. It’s enough for now. It’s enough for Hank and it’s enough for Barry and they don’t have to think or talk but they do. Barry caresses his thumb over the back of Hank’s hand every time the Chechen makes a snarky comment about the show, and they laugh instead of bicker. Maybe this is what Barry wanted all along. Maybe the agitated façade was masking a longing this whole time. Hank doesn’t know. Neither does Barry, really. So they sit, fingers entwined, and their bubble floats on.

* * *

“Ah, ha-_ah_!” Barry shouts, delivering a jolted kick right to Hank’s jaw. Hank pulls back with a heavy “_oof_” and Barry sits upright on the bed in an instant.

“Ah, what the _fuck_, man?” Hank asks, sounding more annoyed than he looks.

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

Hank rubs his sore jaw with his clean hand, but his straight face turns into a wicked grin that has Barry on fire all over again. His brows shoot upward and his smile goes a bit crooked.

“I told you, feels good, right?” Hank eggs him on and leans in again to get back to work. “I mean, not ‘kick Hank in the fucking face’ good, but good, right?”

Barry’s back arches as Hank’s two fingers enter him once more. Hank slowly guides Barry’s legs back up and apart, making sure he’s situated close enough to the other man so that Barry can’t deliver another bruising blow. Barry’s more flexible than either of them thought, and Hank thinks he looks so pretty with a few fingers in his ass.

“Is it supposed to feel like that?”

“What did it feel like?”

“Like…” Barry swallows and writhes as Hank twists his fingers. If this felt half as good for Hank when Barry was doing it to him, Barry supposes he must have done a damn fucking good job. Barry takes a deep breath, something Hank told him to remember to do in order to adjust to the new sensations. “It felt like – _fuck_!” Hank crooks his fingers and rubs against that spot again, causing Barry’s hard cock to strain and sweaty fists to grip the bed sheets. Hank’s glad they agreed to sleep in the other bed – Barry’s – tonight. Hank doesn’t stop his motions. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.”

Barry’s twice sated with Hank tucked into his side as he tries to fall asleep. He lets his mind drift off. Carpeted stairs, nice-smelling candles, Hank in an apron whipping up some eastern European dish Barry’s never heard of. A fireplace, a laundry room downstairs, Hank kissing him on the cheek as he does a crossword puzzle on the couch. It’s a life. It’s not his life, it never will be his life. He wants the mundane, he wants the occasional spontaneity, he wants the love. Fuck, he wants the love.

Hank makes a subtle noise in his easy sleep and Barry cranes down to plant a kiss on the top of his head. Nice-smelling candles, a barbecue out back, surprising Hank in the shower on a lazy Sunday. A fireplace, Hank’s ugly polos lining their closet, Hank tumbling into bed with him and whispering filthy praise all over sensitive skin. A life, but not his. Barry drifts off before midnight for the first time in what must be a decade, Hank on his arm and in the images dancing along his closed eyelids. 

It’s not his life, it never will be his life, but god, it’s a life, and he wants it.

**Author's Note:**

> wow thank you for reading this whole thing!! let me know if you see any glaring errors please! i am just one grad student with one brain cell!


End file.
